Take Me Out To The Ballgame
by Moonlighter
Summary: Circa the early "Kooky Quartet" days. A recent immigrant to the States, Pietro has never been to a proper ballgame - Steve takes it upon himself to rectify this, and learns a bit more about one of his new recruits in the process.


**TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALLGAME**

* * *

Steve had learned a few things about the mutant speedster, since he and his sister moved into Avengers Mansion some months ago. Precious few.

Clint used the term "old world" when referring to the pair now (after Steve had put the term "Euro-trash" officially off limits), and he tried to play the dissonance in his tone off dismissively, as though the loss was theirs and the onus on them to conform. Steve had seen how their tight-lipped nature vexed the archer, who yearned for camaraderie, for attention -and it's true, even for affection- and he took their standoffish solidarity as a personal slight.

Steve knew better. "They're not snobs, Clint," he had said in their defense one day.

"Ohhh yes they are," Clint inched his chin up with a dramatic sniff, oblivious to the irony. Immediately he challenged back, "Okay, then what are they?"

"Immigrants."

Maybe Clint didn't have the right kind of firsthand experience to understand all that that entailed. Maybe Steve saw a little of himself in these kids, catching glimpses of how they experienced this country -his country- with its first-world modern marvels for the first time. If Clint downplayed his disappointment not to have become fast friends with the team's exotic newcomers ("cool" is probably a better word now), than the twins were positively deadpan. Only Wanda, occasionally, let her defenses slip, betraying the simple circumstances of her youth to stare wide-eyed in wonder at some commonplace convenience that anyone born here would take for granted.

Still, he tried not to pry. Whether they were working through the culture shock of relocating to the States or they were understandably daunted by the new roles to live up to as Avengers, it did no one any good to beleaguer the point.

Until today.

Because there were some oversights, certain displays of gross neglect and short-coming, that Steve Rogers considered an affront to American dignity, and which he simply could not tolerate.

"Heads up!" He had already pitched the bag flying through the air.

The young man turned and caught it an inch from his head in one smooth motion without flinching. "And this is?"

"For you – Happy Birthday. Open it!"

Under the arch of a suspicious brow, he regarded the team's leader who stood casually dressed, bouncing slightly on his heels separated by a customary wide stance.

"O-kay," said the mutant. Somehow the word always sounded unnatural coming from him – Steve supposed he might say it that way on purpose to amuse himself. "Hm." Pietro pulled out the baseball cap embroidered with NY and gave it a perplexed look as he rotated it to and fro, as though the thing should come with instructions.

Steve explained, "I overheard you say you've never been to a ballgame, and I want you to know that it's already forgiven, but we need to address this situation ASAP. So come on and get dressed – I mean, get dressed _down_, like this. I'm taking you to the stadium; game starts in a couple hours, we can still beat traffic."

A few minutes later Pietro reappeared in jeans and a sweatshirt, still with a quizzical look towards the hat that he held.

Steve snatched it and planted it on the other man's head. "Looks good." He realized the added benefit that with his hair covered, they might even get through the day unrecognized. "Just do me a favor and don't wear it backwards." He jiggled the bill to emphasize where it belonged: in front. "Let's go!"

They arrived early enough to tour the stadium on foot while partaking in one of America's finest culinary staples and what Steve was horrified to learn was Pietro's first hot dog.

"So is it anything like… what did you say?"

"Bockwurst. Mm, not as similar as it looks."

"But it's good though, right?"

"Oh, yes," his tone still relayed the 'sir' left off at the end, the way a polite guest would at someone else's table.

They found their seats after making a couple rounds. It was hard to be sure, but Steve liked to think that Pietro's sunglasses concealed a degree of amazement to behold the expansive architecture, the vast and immaculate field, and the enthusiastic roar of the crowd as the teams debuted.

When the audience stood up as one unit after a string of announcements over the loudspeaker, Pietro darted to his own feet belatedly, grasping Steve's arm tight. "Cap. I wasn't listening - what happened?"

Steve saw how he stiffened as he scanned the crowd now reacting seemingly with a hive-mind, as though a hoard of living dead rose around them. "It's the National Anthem." That didn't seem to explain as much as it should have. He said, "Just take off your hat." When Pietro did, hesitantly, Steve reached over to fold his hand against his chest before resuming that same position himself.

A few seconds after the music started, he saw Pietro finally relax in his peripheral vision, convinced they were not beset by the zombie apocalypse after all. Laughing to himself, Steve nudged the other man playfully - to think that people say **he**never shuts off.

As the game got underway, either Pietro was genuinely interested or eager for distractions to help allay his boredom, because he listened actively while Steve narrated the rules and techniques and strategy. Even shop-talking enough for two people was half of a dream come true, and a welcome reprieve from what had been a fairly grueling daily grind since he got the new team lineup underway. It occurred to Steve he hadn't taken any personal time off in months.

He admitted this fact after the game ended, as they made their way shoulder to shoulder in a sea of fans towards the gates. "Anyway, it's nice to get out in the world we work so hard to keep safe – helps put things in perspective. This was a good game, too. I'm glad it was your first. Are you hooked now?"

"Hooked?"

"Uh… addicted. Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Oh. Yes, I like the game." A rowdy group of boys wearing the winning team's colors passed them up just then, heckling another group nearby wearing the losing team's colors. Both Avengers tensed at the prospect of trouble brewing, but nothing came of it – the rivaling fans exchanged a few choice words and went their separate ways. "Less so the crowd," Pietro added.

"Yeah, takes some getting used to. There's a lot _more people_ than back in my day. With more disposable income I guess. Different times and all." Steve gazed sidelong at his companion. "That probably sounds weird."

"No, actually. I mean- whatever it was like here in the thirties, obviously I can only imagine. But the last time I saw this many people assembled for one sole purpose, it was Magneto's invading army marching through the streets of Santo Marco." The mutant returned Steve's sidelong look. "Those soldiers were actually just an illusion cast by Mastermind, by the way. Which still probably sounds weird."

Steve laughed. "Oh, not at all – I'm sure between the two of us we're almost half normal."

On the way home, he tasked the mutant with calling out a place they could stop to eat. In the impossible city traffic they ended up parking a world away, and eventually found themselves at a place that described itself as Mediterranean fusion. It was the least exotic option of everything they passed along the way.

"Will it be spicy though?"

"No," had been Pietro's answer every time he asked.

"Uh-huh. You said that about the restaurant with 'hot' literally in its own name."

"Did I?" Pietro smiled at the hostess (or directed it that way), holding up thumb and index finger to indicate how many guests for their table. "I must have thought you were talking about the tofu place next door." As the hostess led the way, Pietro glanced back over his shoulder to say, "Rest assured, Captain, I would not see you hurt – but you might be surprised to find that you enjoy a little spice in your life."

Taken aback at what seemed to be the first expression of humor from the speedster, Steve wasn't sure how to respond, and silently followed along onto the patio in turn. Half way into the menu and thoroughly disillusioned by how many different types of olives the chef here seemed obsessed with, Steve handed his menu to Pietro. "Why don't you order for us both – since I'm under your protection and apparently don't know what's best for myself."

Ever ambitious and ready to take the lead, Pietro did so -speaking Italian to the pleasantly surprised waitress- and they settled back into their chairs alternatively in comfortable silence or casual conversation.

"So." Pietro adjusted his sunglasses for no reason - the sun was behind him and in a few minutes would be blocked out by a high-rise. "Wanda told you about the birthday thing."

"What is this...?" Steve had been mid-examination of a slimy green sauce drizzled over the whatever-it-was that the waitress dropped off. Little rounds of crisp bread with sliced tomatoes, soft flat cheese, and green goo.

"Pesto. Basil."

"Why is it _wet_? I thought basil comes in a shaker."

"It's fresh basil blended with olive oil." Pietro adjusted his hat. "So she told you."

"No." Steve looked up. He could almost hear the gears turning in the mutant's head and had to smile. The truth was far simpler than whatever Pietro would come up with. Clint had described him as paranoid – but Clint had never seen shell-shock. "You both put down different birth dates on your application paperwork. Now I'm not a doctor, but that seemed a little unusual for twins..."

"Ah." Pietro's lips compressed slightly, annoyed to have missed the obvious answer. He said as if to himself or to Wanda as if she were beside him, "I thought we had agreed on August eighth."

"Well... you both put down different years too, actually." Steve finished his first bruschetta and sat back, accomplished. "Okay, you can say I told you so now – this stuff isn't bad."

The mutant shook his head with a faint smile.

Resuming the prior subject, Steve tried to ask lightly, "You're not really twenty-five, are you?"

All mirth drained at once from the other man's face, and he went still for the first time that day.

"Look, you're not in any trouble by me," Steve said. "I figure there must be a good reason. But if it's all the same to you, I would like to know the truth."

"We-" Pietro started over. "I'm sorry. There was no intent to deceive you. I mean, not _you_ personally." He seemed to deliberate, studying the weave of the tablecloth. "No. To answer your question. We are not twenty-five – and probably not whatever age Wanda wrote either. The truth is that we just don't know. Things were not usual for us, growing up. Even before Magneto – long before. We had other concerns, we always have." He shook himself, and with a wave of his hand said faster, "It is a trivial detail, anyway, yes? Just something for paperwork. When else does it even matter?"

Steve shrugged. "Wanda showed off the bracelet you bought for her to everyone in the mansion – she really adores it. I noticed the engraving."

Based on his tone of voice, Steve imagined the other man's eyes narrowing behind those shades, "The engraving was not in English."

"Ha – well I noticed that too. I asked her what it meant and when I tried to wish her a happy birthday she said it was a _belated_ birthday present. But the date on her form was December and it's September, so – I figured you guys exercise a little artistic license with the whole 'birthday thing'." Steve refilled their glasses from a carafe. "By the way, it seemed to mean a lot more to her than just some detail for paperwork."

"Yes. Well." Pietro adjusted his hat, sunglasses, the chair. "I have not always been able to provide for her. Not in such a way that she deserves. A belated birthday present here and there is the least I can do now."

Steve did some quick math in his head, wondering if either of the dates the siblings used came close to accurate. "Say… you must be at least twenty-one though, right?" He remembered someone had corrected him as to the new legal drinking limit here now.

Pietro twitched. It might have been a fast shrug.

"Are you kidding me? I had a beer with you at the stadium. If you're underage-"

"If you call that beer…"

"_Hey_ – I'll have you know that beer is known as the Great American Lager, young man."

"Well, if you are trying to get me drunk it will take something quite a bit stronger, for the record."

He did not smile, and Steve had a hard time deciding if he joked. "The sun's down, take your glasses off. You look like an off-duty CIA agent."

"Maybe I am. You clearly skipped the background check, who knows what might have turned up."

"Well, we already knew about the terrorism and all – I assumed you'd have more diabolical things to do than falsify your date of birth after that. Anyway," their entrees arrived just then, "you can arrest me for supplying alcohol to a minor after we eat. And this better not be spicy."

"If couscous is spicy to you, I'm joining the X-Men." Pietro pointedly removed his glasses and aimed a broad, manufactured, un-CIA-like smile at his companion. The real smile was all in his eyes – Steve figured it would always live there, and felt more at ease finally knowing where to find it.

* * *

_**~fin~**_

* * *

**Obscurity:**  
*Since Steve's youth, the legal drinking age in the US had increased to 21. Chances are that canonically, Wanda and Pietro were still 'underage' when they immigrated.  
*In the US, folks count from their index finger as 'one', while in Europe 'one' starts with the thumb.  
*Magneto really did invade the fictional Island Nation of Santo Marco in the eaaaaarly days, when Pietro was a member of the Brotherhood.  
*The timeline here is purposefully unspecified - because comics. Technically it would be the 60's when this story should take place, if it's only been months since Wanda and Pietro joined the Avengers. But... I'm loosely placing it mid-90's, because fanficiton.


End file.
